


Unshelled

by crabmoney3



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Baltimore Crabs, Breckenridge Jazz Hands, Family, Gen, Hawaii Fridays, Loneliness, real sad boy hours, the peanut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmoney3/pseuds/crabmoney3
Summary: Nagomi McDaniel is trapped in a peanut shell. She is lonely, full of self doubt, and trying desperately not to lose herself to the darkness. She finds light in her stepson, York Silk, whom she recruited to the Fridays in the first place.
Relationships: Nagomi McDaniel & Herself, Nagomi McDaniel & York Silk, Nagomi McDaniel x Mrs Silk
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Unshelled

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine a world where Nagomi McDaniel gets unshelled just after the season 8 Wlorld Series. Remember that York Silk just got shelled. Sadness ensues.

Unshelled

By crabmoney3

When you enter a dark room, you are first greeted by blindness. As the night begins to trust you, your eyes adjust and it becomes easier to see. Even in total darkness, your eyes will try their best to adjust. For two seasons I have waited for the darkness to trust me.

Cocooned in the shell there isn’t much else I can do. I wait for the darkness to open up to me, to let me see the ridges I feel while running my fingertips along the walls. Sometimes I think my eyes are finally adjusting, but no. It’s just my mind playing tricks. So most of the time I let my eyes stay closed, and I listen.

And I listen.

And I listen.

But the shell is nearly soundproof. I cannot make out voices, cannot hear if anyone speaks to me while I’m burrowed inside. Not that it matters; they wouldn’t be able to hear me either. I know. I tried. When I first woke up in here, I tried so hard to reach out. I cried out for anyone, everyone, my teammates, my friends, my family, but all I heard what my own shrill echo bouncing directly into my ears, reverberating along the shell walls. They can’t hear me, but I can, only me, only my voice, only the thoughts in my head.

I try not to listen.

I cry for my teammates, though I couldn’t tell you who they are anymore. It all happened so fast. I was in Breckenridge. We made the playoffs. Morale was high for everyone, so why not me? Why didn’t it feel the same as the week before when Baltimore raised me up on their shoulders? There were already talks of trades then, but what about now? Would Baltimore even want me like this? Would anyone? The good part of being in total blackness is it doesn’t matter which uniform you’re wearing. It could be blue, it could be red, even green. It doesn’t matter. The echoes tell me I do not matter.

I try not to listen.

I try not to listen.

The darkness plays tricks on my eyes. The echoes play tricks on my ears. My thoughts wander home. In my head, I think I can hear the sound of waves crashing. I know it’s not real, still I can’t help but drift along the current. In my head I am in Hawaii. I am back on Kailua Kona near the beach. I smell coffee beans. I think of my fingers in the hot sand. Then there she is, her face flickering in front of my eyes and I think the darkness has finally begun to trust me. But no, it’s nothing but a trick. I think about her.

I think about the boy.

York was only two when I moved back home. I don’t know what happened to his father. I never cared to ask. His mother loved me, and he loved me, so why did it matter what came before then? I taught him how to hold a bat. I didn’t need to teach him how to swing. He was a prodigy. When he came to me, I knew. One day he’d surpass everyone in the league. I wished this for him. Now, I try not to think about it.

I try not to hear his mother’s voice telling me I pushed him into the splort too young. Instead I think of his crooked smile, missing teeth, only eight years old as we took his photo for the team roster. I was so proud of him. I am still so proud of him. He reaches for my hand as we walk to the field. I reach back, and my palm is met by coarse shell.

It’s only a trick of the dark.

I lean my head against the barricade and try again to focus on sounds of the outside world. I’d given up yelling weeks before, my voice hoarse and shallow. Instead, I focus. I listen. Sometimes I hear the outside world trying to make contact with me. A scratching on the shell. A pecking from birds. The pattering of bloodrain, or maybe even peanuts. It’s hard to tell the difference. Sometimes it feels like the thud of a ball landing in my mitt, but I know that can’t be it. There’s no way they have me in the field now.

Still I wonder where I am. Off the field, but where? Breckenridge? Baltimore? Somewhere I’ve never been? I think about my teammates, new and old. Campos landing on my shoulder to welcome me, wings beating by my ear. Forrest bringing me plants, silent and unsettling, still letting me know that the Crabitat could be home. I miss them all.

I think about the boy.

I hear his laughter in my dreams. I hear him yelling at me to watch him try something his mother certainly would not approve of. I hear the crack of the bat and cheering crowds as he sprints around the bases, beaming at me as he slides into home. I want to hold him in my arms, to lift him up on my shoulders and tell him how amazing he is. I want to tell him how far he’s going to go.

Pecking rocks my exoskeleton, and my mind shifts to his mother shaking her head. She hasn’t loved me the same since I left for Baltimore. And why should she, really? I put her boy—our boy—in jeopardy. She knows that. Then I went to Baltimore, and left her to handle that on her own. In my mind I see her smile fading as I packed my things, York still beaming, proclaiming, “You’re the best, Momgomi! One day I’m going to be just like you.”

Just like me.

If he is, she will never forgive me. Not now.

I have never wanted him to be just like me. York deserves so much better in this life. He deserves to be happier, so much happier, than I could dream of being. He deserves love and security. He deserves the chance to grow up, to have fun, to truly be a child. I suppose I’ve taken that from him, haven’t I?

I try not to think about it.

The birds keep pecking.

Two seasons, and I am still waiting for the darkness to trust me. Instead it plays crude tricks and leaves me stranded with my own thoughts. I cannot tell which is louder, the voices echoing my fears, banging against my ears that I’m no longer wanted, that I no longer have value, or the birds incessantly peck, peck, pecking at my walls as though they can do anything to end this nutty metamorphosis.

I think about the boy. I think about how much I miss him. I think about how much it must hurt him that I cannot call. Does he know? Does he know what’s become of me? I don’t know if his mother would tell him, or if she’d try to let me slip away with the tide. She loved me, once. I like to hope she loves me still. But after this? I do not know.

I try not to think about it.

The birds keep pecking.

And pecking.

And pecking.

There is a sliver of light and in it I see the boy. I see him blowing out eight birthday candles while teammates laugh around him. There is pecking, and the light flashes brighter, and I think this must be another one of the darkness’ tricks. Another false hope.

Except, the light continues to grow. I realize that, no, this is not a trick. After two seasons, I am finally met by light. I cannot see. I keep my eyes closed as though I were still waiting for the darkness to trust me. The light against my lids shifts from black to red and I begin to hear the screeching of birds. I feel bits of my cocoon crumble on top of my head. Soon the birds flee and I am still here, emerging like a lost butterfly. I slowly open my eyes.

My team is here. I am in Baltimore, and my team is here. Tot circles me as Kennedy and Pedro help lift me out of the shell. Forrest scuttles over, even Tillman watches with surprise and a slight smile.

“Welcome home,” they all tell me.

I burst into sobs.

Scanning the room, I see faces, some familiar, some not. I do not see Oliver. I do not see Axel. Before I can open my mouth to ask, they begin telling me about everything.

This is Luis, they were traded to us by the Garages for Ollie. He’s now making beautiful music. As for Axel, they gesture towards another giant peanut. My heart aches for him. They tell me I’ve been on the team this whole time. They tell me about the resurrection of Jaylen and the consequences of necromancy. Someone mentions a squid but I am too overwhelmed to pry for more details. They’ve kept me on the field. This whole time, they’ve kept me on the field. I was never useless to them. I was never unloved. We’ve just won the championship, and we are all elated.

I ask about the boy.

No one will meet my gaze.

The room fills with ice as new tears begin to run hot down my cheeks. I’m back in the silence, back in the soundproof shelling begging for a sign from the outside world. Forrest puts a mannequinned hand on my shoulder. Parker shakes her head. It’s Sutton who finally breaks the silence and tells me the truth.

I hear the boy saying, “One day I’m going to be just like you.”

This was never what I wanted. I wish to be back in the shell, I wish that this were one of the darkness’ tricks, I wish for anyone to tell me it isn’t true. I see his smiling face, eclipsed by night. I see his mother.

“This is all your fault,” she tells me.

I try not to listen.

And I try not to listen.

And I try not to listen.


End file.
